“Hold him,” instructed Fidelma calmly. “He is to be held for premeditated murder and grave robbery.”
With astonished expressions, Irél and Tressach moved close to the side of the keeper of the cemetery.
Fidelma now rose languidly to her feet and gazed sorrowfully at Garbh. “There has been no death of a High King or any member of his family during the last three years. Sechnasach is still young and healthy. Why, then, dig a new grave in the cemetery of the High Kings? Will you explain, Garbh, or shall I?”
Garbh remained silent.
“You started digging the grave in order to construct a small passage into the tomb of Tigernmas, didn’t you, Garbh?”
“For what purpose would one want to enter an ancient tomb?” demanded Colmán, chagrined that he had not spotted such an obvious matter as the new grave.
“To rob the tomb, of course,” replied Fidelma. “Where were all the gold, silver and jewels that would have been buried with Tig-ernmas? Only a single bar and some gold jewelry lay discarded on the floor of the burial chamber. Tigernmas was a king of many legends. But it was well known that he ruled a rich court. Following the custom of our ancestors, rich grave goods would have been placed there to serve him in the Otherworld.”
Irél was looking shamefaced. Fidelma had pointed out this very fact to him and it had not registered.
“But there is much to be explained,” he pointed out. “How did the judge, Fiacc, come to be there? Had he spotted Garbh’s intention and tried to catch him?”
Fidelma shook her head. “It was Fiacc’s idea to rob the tomb in the first place. Fiacc had married a mercenary young woman. Fiacc had also made several mistakes in judgment and had become destitute through the payment of compensation. He was desperately in debt. He needed money badly. He needed money prior to his hearing before the Chief Brehon tomorrow. Money to cover his debts and money to keep his capricious young wife. It was Fiacc’s idea to rob the tomb of Tigernmas, which, according to the chroniclers, contained great riches. But how was he to do it on his own?”
“Do you have the explanation?” Colmán asked.
“When he arrived at Tara, Fiacc spent a day or so in the cemetery examining the tomb. He realized there was only one way to get access without attracting any attention. He enlisted the aid of Garbh, the keeper of the graves. Once Garbh saw the simplicity of the plan, greed took over. Money is always a great incentive.
“Garbh was always in the cemetery, repairing tombs. It was Garbh’s job to dig the graves when a High King or his family died. No one was bothered when Garbh started to dig a grave near the sepulcher of Tigernmas. No one even thought to ask why he was digging a grave. Everyone saw Garbh at what was presumed to be his usual lawful task.
“Garbh and Fiacc broke into the tomb of Tigernmas this evening. When you come to examine the new grave which Garbh has dug, and which he meant to fill in tomorrow, you will find traces of a short tunnel into the tomb. It will come up under the floor, under one of the granite slabs. One of those slabs, Irél, with the scratch marks on it which you so rightly observed had been made by ropes used to reset it into its proper place in the floor. The plan was that Garbh and Fiacc would extract the riches and reseal the passage so that no one would know that the tomb had even been entered. A few items were overlooked in the haste to extract everything. A bar of silver and some jewelry were left behind. But that was all.”
“How did Fiacc die?” demanded Irél, trying to follow the story.
“Was it the curse of Tigernmas that struck him down?” Tressach asked fearfully.
“Fiacc died,” replied Fidelma coldly, “because Garbh decided that he did not want to share the easy money that had come his way. Having been shown the almost effortless way to gain riches, Garbh wanted those riches for himself. He waited until he and Fiacc had removed all the loot from the tomb and were cleaning up. Fiacc you see, being a judge, was very meticulous about his planning. In case, some accident caused the tomb to be opened, he had decided that the dust on the floor, which would show evidence of their activity and might provide a clue to their identity, should be swept away.”
Irél groaned. Again Fidelma had pointed this out to him and it had not registered as important.
“Go on,” he urged. “You have told us why Fiacc died. Now tell us how exactly he died.”
“It was after the spoils had been removed and the cleaning finished that Garbh, using a fé, the measuring stick for graves, stabbed Fiacc in the back and thought he had killed him. He then left the tomb, resealed the entrance, and went back to the grave he was digging, perhaps filling in the tunnel after him. We shall see that later. I would imagine that he has stored his spoils in or near his cabin.”
Garbh shifted uneasily at this and Fidelma smiled in satisfaction.
“Yes, Irél, I think you will find the treasure of Tigernmas hidden at Garbh’s cabin.”
“But Fiacc was not killed immediately,” Tressach interrupted. “Garbh left him wounded in the tomb when he resealed it.”
“Garbh did not realize this. He thought he had killed Fiacc. The wound made Fiacc pass out. He was badly hurt. He was dying. But he came to consciousness and realized that he was sealed in the darkened tomb. He realized, in terror, that he himself was entombed. He gave a scream of dread, which you, Tressach, in passing the tomb, heard. He began to drag himself to the wooden doors, crying in desperation. Not knowing that Tressach had heard his scream, he began to scrabble at the doors until, in that fearful moment of horror, death overtook him.”
“I did not mean to kill him. It was an argument,” Garbh said slowly, speaking now for the first time and admitting guilt. “It was Fiacc who wanted the greater part of the wealth for himself. He said that he would only give me a small portion of the spoils. When I demanded a fair and equal share, he attacked me. He picked up the old grave measure and attacked me and I defended myself. In the struggle, he was stabbed. I was not responsible for murder. You cannot punish me for that.”
Fidelma shook her head.
“Oh no, Garbh. You plotted to kill Fiacc from the very beginning. As soon as Fiacc had explained the plan to you, you decided that you wanted all the spoils from the tomb. You kept Fiacc alive long enough for him to be of help in gaining entrance to the tomb and taking out the treasure. You planned to kill him and leave him in the tomb, hoping that no one would ever open the tomb again. Your mistake was twofold: firstly, not ensuring that he was dead when you left him, and secondly, vanity.”
“You cannot prove I set out to kill Fiacc!” cried Garbh. “If I had meant to kill him I would have taken a weapon into the tomb. Fiacc was killed by an old grave measurement left lying in the tomb. Even Irél will bear witness to that.”
Irél reluctantly nodded in agreement.
“That seems so, Sister. It was a fé that killed Fiacc. You know that. And there was Ogham carved on it. I know the ancient script. It read, ‘May the gods protect us.’ The reference to the gods and not God shows that it belonged to the pagan tomb. It must have been lying in the burial chamber.”
“Not so. The grave measure was made by Garbh,” insisted Fi-delma. She pointed to the table in the Abbot’s room on which she had already laid the fé taken from the tomb.
“That was not the fé that measured the tomb of Tigernmas. Look at it closely. The wood is new. The Ogham notches are clean-cut. Examine the cuts. There are traces of sap still drying. Who ever cut this cut it within the last twenty-four hours.”
Colmán had picked up the stick, taking care to genuflect to keep himself from harm at the handling of such an unlucky instrument, and examined it carefully.
“The piece of aspen is still in sap,” he confirmed wonderingly.
“Garbh had burnt a point on it to ensure that it was hard and able to be used as a dagger. He carved some Ogham on it as an afterthought. That was his vanity. He had taken notice of Fiacc’s exhortation to detail and thought of a great joke to play on Fiacc. If the tomb was ever excavated, they would find Fiacc
with an ancient pagan fé stuck into his heart. Garbh was too clever for his own good. It was easy to see that the fé was new-cut. And it proves that Garbh premeditated the murder. He prepared his murder weapon before he entered the tomb. It was not a spur-of-the-moment argument.”
Garbh said nothing. The blood had drained from his features.
“You may take him away now,” Fidelma instructed Irél. “And you may make the arrangements to reseal the tomb … but after the treasures of Tigernmas are replaced in it.” She grinned impishly. “It would not do, this night of all nights, to provoke the spirit of Tigernmas by keeping back any of his gold or silver, would it?”
Abbot Colmán was pouring more mulled wine and handed the goblet to Fidelma. “A sorry story, indeed,” he sighed. “An avaricious official and a corrupt judge. How can such wickedness be explained?”
“You forget Étromma in that summation,” replied Fidelma. “She was the catalyst who made Fiacc’s need of money so desperate and who started this chain of events. It was her lack of love, her selfishness, and, above all, her greed that caused this human tragedy. It is said in the book of Timothy: radix omnium malorum est cupiditas.”
“The love of money is the root of all evil,” translated Abbot Colmán and then bent his head in agreement.
THE HORSE THAT DIED FOR SHAME
“Horse racing,” observed the Abbot Laisran of Durrow, “is a cure for all the ills of humankind. It is a surrogate for people’s aggression and for their greed. We would find the world a harsher place without its institution.”
The Abbot was a short, rotund, red-faced man with an almost exuberant sense of humor. In fact, the Abbot’s features were permanently fixed in a state of jollity for he was born with that rare gift of fun and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it.
Sister Fidelma of Kildare, walking at his side, answered his philosophical pronouncement with an urchinlike grin which seemed to belie her calling as a member of the religieuse of the community of Kildare.
“I doubt that Archbishop Ultan would agree with you, Laisran,” she responded, raising a hand to her forehead in a vain attempt to push back the rebellious strands of red hair which tumbled from beneath her head-dress.
The Abbot’s lips quirked in amusement as he gazed at his onetime protégée, for it had been Laisran who had urged Fidelma to study law under the renowned Brehon, Morann of Tara, and, when she had reached the qualification of Anruth, one degree below the highest rank of learning, becoming an advocate of the courts of law, he had persuaded her to join the community of Brigid.
“But the Bishop Bressal would agree with me,” he countered. “He has two horses which he races regularly and he is not averse to placing wagers on them.”
Sister Fidelma knew that Bressal, who was Bishop to Fáelán of the Uí Dúnlainge, king of Laighin, was a keen supporter of the sport but, then, there were few to be found in the five kingdoms of Éireann who were not. Even the ancient word for a festival in Éireann, aenach, meant “the contention of horses,” when people came together to discuss weighty matters, to race their horses, to place wagers, to feast, to make merry and generally indulge in celebrations. Only recently had Ultan of Armagh, the Archbishop and primate, begun to denounce the great fairs as contrary to the Faith for, so he claimed, the fairs were merely an excuse for the people to indulge in idolatry and pagan dissoluteness. Mostly, his denouncements were ignored, even by his own clergy, for the ancient customs were so instilled in the people’s lives that it would take more than one man’s prejudice to alter or dilute them.
In fact, Ultan’s pronouncements were being ignored that very day by Abbot Laisran and Sister Fidelma as they strolled through the crowds gathering for the Aenach Life, the great annual fair held on the plain which, since the days of the High King Conaire Mór, had been called the Curragh Lifé, or “the race course of the Life,” after the name of the broad river flowing close by, twisting under the shadow of Dún Aillin. Indeed, was it not recorded that the saintly Brigid, who had founded Fidelma’s own community at nearby Kildare, had raced her own horses on this very plain? The Curragh was now the most celebrated race course in all the five kingdoms and the Aenach Lifé attracted people from all the corners of Éireann. Each year, the King of Laighin himself would come to officially open the proceedings as well as to race his own champion horses there.
Fidelma, with a smile, waved away a youth trying to sell them hot griddle cakes, and glanced at her elderly companion.
“Have you seen Bishop Bressal this morning?”
“I heard that he was here earlier,” Laisran replied, “but I have not seen him. He is racing his favorite horse, Ochain, today. However, I have seen the bishop’s jockey, Murchad, laying heavy wagers on himself to win with Ochain. At least Murchad shares the Bishop’s faith in himself and his horse.”
Fidelma pursed her lips reflectively.
“Ochain. I have heard of that beast. But why name a horse ‘moaner’?”
“I understand that Ochain utters a moaning sound as it senses that it is about to win. Horses are intelligent creatures.”
“More intelligent than most men, oftimes,” agreed Fidelma.
“Between ourselves, certainly more intelligent than the good Bishop,” chuckled Laisran. “He is openly boasting that he will win the race today against Fáelán’s own horse, which does not please the King. They say the King is in a sour mood at his Bishop’s bragging.”
“So Fáelán is also racing today?”
“His best horse,” confirmed the Abbot. “And, in truth, there is little doubt of the outcome for the King’s champion Illan is in the saddle and with Aonbharr beneath his thighs, no team in Laighin will even come near… not even Murchad and Ochain. And, indeed, the fact that Illan is riding the King’s horse is doubtless a matter of displeasure for Bishop Bressal.”
“Why so?” Fidelma was interested in Laisran’s gossip.
“Because Illan used to train and race Bressal’s horses before the King of Laighin offered him more money to train and ride Aonbharr.”
“Aonbharr, eh?” Fidelma had heard of the king’s horse. So fleet was it that the King had named it after the fabulous horse of the ancient god of the oceans, Manánnan Mac Lir, a wondrous steed which could fly over land and sea without missing a pace. “I have seen this horse race at the Curragh last year and no one could best it. This horse of Bressal’s better be good or the Bishop’s boasting will rebound on him.”
Abbot Laisran sniffed cynically.
“You have been away traveling this year, Fidelma. Perhaps you have not heard that there is something of a feud now between the King and his bishop. Four times during the last year Bressal has presented horses at races to run against the king’s champion horse and his jockey. Four times now he has been beaten. Bressal is mortified. He has become a man with an obsession. He thinks that he is being made a fool of, especially by his former trainer and jockey. Now he has one aim, to best the King’s horse and Illan in particular. The trouble is that his very efforts are making him a laughingstock.”
Abbot Laisran raised an arm and let his hand describe a half circle in the air toward the throng around them.
“I reckon a goodly proportion of these people have come here to see Bressal humiliated yet again when Aonbharr romps pasts the winning post.”
Fidelma shook her head sadly.
“Did I not say that horses had more sense than men, Laisran? Why must a simple pleasure be turned into warfare?”
Laisran suddenly halted and turned his head.
Pushing toward them, and clearly hurrying to make contact with them, was a young man in the livery of the Baoisgne, the King of Laighin’s elite warrior guard. There was anxiety on his youthful features. He halted before them awkwardly.
“Forgive me, Abbot Laisran,” he began and then turned directly to Fidelma. “Are you Sister Fidelma of Kildare?”
Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgment.
“Then would you
come at once, Sister?”
“What is the matter?”
“It is the wish of the King, Fáelán himself.” The young man glanced quickly round before lowering his voice so that he would not be overheard by the surrounding crowds. “Illan, the King’s champion jockey, has been found… dead. The King’s horse, Aon-bharr, is dying. The King’s believes that there has been foul play and has caused Bishop Bressal to be arrested.”
Fáelán of the Uí Dúnlainge, King of Laighin, sat scowling in his tent. Fidelma and Laisran had been escorted to the veritable township of tents which had been set up for the King and chieftains and their ladies alongside the course. Often entire families would camp at the Curragh during the nine days of the meeting. Behind the tents of the nobles were the tents of the trainers, riders and owners of lesser status as well as the tents which served as stables for their horses.
Fáelán of the Uí Dúnlainge was a man approaching his fortieth year. His dark features, black hair and bushy eyebrows made his features saturnine. When he scowled, his face took on the appearance of a malignant spirit which caused many a person to quail in his presence and stand uneasy.
Abbot Laisran, however, who had accompanied Fidelma, stood imperturbably smiling at the king, hands folded in his robes. He was acquainted with Fáelán and knew his grim features disguised a fair and honorable man. At Fáelán’s side sat his queen, the beautiful Muadnat of the burnished hair; tall and sensual, the tales of whose amours were legend. She was richly dressed with a jewelled belt and dagger sheath at her waist, such as all noble ladies carried. But, Fidelma noticed curiously, the sheath was empty of its small ceremonial dagger. The Queen looked dejected, as if she had been given to a recent fit of weeping.
Behind the king and queen stood the Tanist, the heir-presumptive, a nephew of Fáelán’s named Énna; and beside him was his wife, Dagháin. They were both in their mid-twenties. Énna was a handsome though morose man, while his wife was almost nondescript at first glance: although she was fashionably dressed, she was without the same care as her queen for Fidelma noticed that her dress was mud-stained and disheveled. Even the bejewelled belt and sheath looked scuffed and the accompanying ceremonial dagger fitted badly. She seemed ill at ease and impatient.
Hemlock at Vespers sf-9 Page 37